


A Burnt Child Dreads The Fire

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Alternative Universe - No Haunted, Brainwashing, Cults, Detectives, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Hospitals, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Sebastian Castellanos is a dedicated detective with the K.C.P.D., sometimes he can be a little uptight. But he has probable cause to justify his behavior. He's a single, hardworking father and his son, Leslie, is mentally ill. <em>Adopted son</em>, the victim of an old murder case he was in charge of ten years prior, until things went south and the entire family was slaughtered, the killer never caught. Which has left Leslie requiring regular care, something Sebastian can't really give him because of his busy schedule - busy like this week's Monday...</p><p>It's close to midnight when there's a call about a massacre at Beacon Mental Hospital and even though Sebastian's just about ready to call it a night, he goes to investigate. But once he arrives at the scene of the crime, he realizes that it's somehow linked to his old case from a decade ago, and that his son's life may be in grave danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Office

**Author's Note:**

> ~~No idea where we're headed with this story yet~~ \- utter lies, we know where this monster's headed - but originally we wanted to elaborate on the connection between Ruvik, Leslie, and Sebastian in a sort of down-to-earth AU. The first chapter is basically establishing plot, but there will be much angst and tension later down the road... Promise. Cheers!

It’s just like any other Monday at the Krimson City Police Department, and usually Detective Sebastian Castellanos would joke around and say the M stood for _murder_ or _mind-numbing_ even, but today he’s just not feeling it.

Instead, he’s drained, sitting silently at his desk at the back of the office. His arms crossed, his fingers rhythmically mocking the ticking of the grandfather clock across from him – the one next to a mirror, which he’s staring at intently. That, and his reflection…

Though it’s more like he’s procrastinating. His legs intertwined with each other, propped up and angled among the papers and manila folders on his desk, jittering his dominant foot, and when he hears a sigh he doesn’t even turn to see who’s stepping up behind him.

It’s obvious it’s Kidman… She always sighs like that. Quietly.

“What time is—”

“Half past ten.” Sebastian slides his legs off his table with a turn, smoothly spinning in his chair to face her with his typical expression. Stoic and frowning. “Time for you to go home, Kidman.”

It’s a direct order, a dismissal, but it seems to catch more of his partner’s attention, Joseph Oda, rather than Kidman’s, who’s sitting across from him at his own desk. Not with a fancy name plate like Sebastian’s though, and the younger detective takes off his glasses to wipe the sleep from his eyes in a groggy drone.

“Shouldn’t we _all_ be going home?” Joseph asks, not really in a complaint per say, more like a casual conversation between burnt coworkers. “It’s not like we have anything left to cover tonight.”

“You sure about that? Because I think I know someone who still needs to fill out that paperwork on last week’s shooting.” Kidman eyes Sebastian discreetly, who exhales like he’s pushing smoke through his nose.

A cigarette he could use about now, and he reaches around the back of his chair and into his trench to rummage through his pockets.

“I’m working on it.” Sebastian gruffs, pulling out an empty pack of cigs, which he’s soon to skip across his desk and onto the floor, obviously unhappy. “Got another eight files to go.” And after a grunt he leans forward to shabbily shuffle through the pile of papers, his brow furrowing when he uncovers another folder beneath all the others. “Make that nine…”

“You’re kidding, right? You’ll be here overnight, Sebastian.” Joseph scolds as he makes an effort to put away his own things before rising to a stand, and after a few brushes at his black vest he’s reaching for his coat on the hanger behind him. “What about Leslie?” He slips his right arm in first, flinching from the gunshot wound he got last week – from the same case Kidman mentioned earlier. “Is he all right at home by himself?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Tatiana looking after him tonight.”

Tatiana being the house nurse he just started hiring, and Sebastian glances at his partner’s stiff shoulder and struggle before dropping his eyes to his desk, guiltily. After all, he’s still beating himself up for not being quick enough in covering him last Wednesday. But it seems there’s no use in berating the past. What’s done is done, and Sebastian dips back with his chair in a deep slant.

“Fine print says fifty bucks charged hourly for overtime.”

“Good for her.” Joseph muses, sarcasm as dull as his tone.

“Bad for me.” Sebastian scoffs sourly, before signaling his partner off with a wave. “Now get out of here already. Just looking at you is making me sore.”

“I’ll agree with you there.” Kidman chips in, one hand on her hip like she’s favoring the weight of her stilettos, the heels looking rather dangerous alongside her tough girl appeal as she gets the door.

“Thanks…” Joseph exhales and fixes his tie unevenly, no doubt a result from all the pampering – something he’s not used to, before he takes Kidman up on her courtliness. “See you two tomorrow then?”

And just like that, Joseph’s gone.

No more dry humor or much-wanted distractions, and Sebastian tiredly drags his attention back to the case files on his desk. Good material for a headache he doesn’t want, and soon he’s scooping up the pile to shove what he can into one of his drawers.

“Forget it. Think I’ll call it a night too.” Sebastian mumbles to himself, voice yawning as he stands up to roll a shoulder. But before he can get any satisfaction from the stretch, the screen of his cell phone lights up.

It buzzes loudly on his desk, and Sebastian bares his teeth at the thought of taking the call. He could just let it go to voicemail, he thinks, make up the excuse that he was sleeping, or maybe in the car driving. Except when the vibrating gets even more erratic, after what sounds like the fifth time, he scoops it up quickly.

“This is Detective Castellanos.” Sebastian’s introduction is flat like taffy, chewed and thick with no charm. Though he does get a kick out of throwing in _Detective_ now and again, and he’s almost flattered when it’s thrown right back.

_“Detective, I know it’s late and you’re probably busy with other cases, but I wouldn’t be calling unless it was important.”_

Sebastian can hear sirens in the background, wooing and competing with the voice on the other line, but after a second or two it quiets down.

_“I really think you’ll be interested in what I’ve got to say…”_

“Connelly?” Sebastian perks a little. “Is that you?”

There’s no answer, but Sebastian knows it is by heart – that, and by ear. After all, he and Oscar Connelly were old friends. Good friends. Often meeting off the job and at crime scenes once in a while. In fact, Sebastian originally met the man during his very first case in the field, the case that landed his career. His bump from beat-cop to Detective, so he’s not about to get impatient because of a little silence.

“What’ve got for me?” Sebastian bends forward, trying not to sound like he’s holding a one-sided conversation as he picks up a loose pen to streak a few lines in his trusted notebook, ready to take point. But when it doesn’t write he’s grabbing another one from his assorted mug.

_“Something you’ll… probably want to see in person. Can you meet me at Beacon Mental Hospital?”_

“What?” Sebastian glances briefly at the grandfather clock again, watching the small hand eat away the seconds, seconds that seemed to drag like a dead foot, dead as a doornail. “Now?”

_“Yes, and you… might want to bring b…k… up. It’s regarding an… old c _…_ e… of yours—”_

After a high-pitched beep the connection dies suddenly, a dropped call, which leaves Sebastian hunched with grit teeth. That, and a floodgate of questions – questions he wants answered. “Connelly? Hey, Connelly!”

“What did he want?” Kidman asks, composed as she sits herself on the edge of Sebastian’s desk, and this time it’s his turn to sigh… Heavily.

“Looks like I’m meeting him at Beacon Memorial tonight.” Sebastian turns, grabbing his beige trench off the back of his chair in a sort of shake to get out the wrinkles.

“Why the urgency?”

“He didn’t get a chance to say.” Sebastian shrugs before slipping his coat on in a hurry, only taking a long enough pause to fix the back of his collar in a twist. “We lost connection.” He kicks his chair into place, tossing his neck towards the exit and his junior detective. “Up for a drive?”

It’s a rushed proposal, seeing as just a few minutes ago he tried to send her home, to go get some shut-eye. Hell, they all needed it. But Kidman’s every bit of loyal to Sebastian as he is to his job. Always ready and on call – always ready to prove herself.

“You got it.” Kidman nods before she moves away to get her gear from her locker nearby, leaving Sebastian to rummage around his desk a little longer.

He’s looking for his keys, and slides his rough hands over and under the loose papers in a sketchy search. “Dammit, where are they?” He growls aloud, something he does often – complaining for the sake of showcasing his impatience, and when there’s no such luck on top, he opens the drawer on his right to check there.

But that’s when he sees the framed picture he’d hidden a while back – the one with himself and a fifteen-year-old Leslie standing together, awkwardly. It’s an old photograph, ten years to the dot, and Sebastian frowns when he picks it up, suddenly remembering that it’s the boy’s birthday today.

“Shit.” He mutters, mostly at his own forgetfulness, before he locates his keys under his desk and bends down to retrieve them. Dropped there because of his clumsiness, no doubt, and after they’re in-hand Sebastian closes his drawer in a slam, hiding the picture once again – a sweet memoir but also a reminder.

A reminder that Leslie isn’t his real son.

But despite that fact, Sebastian tries his hardest to treat the boy like he is. Though somehow these late-night shifts are straining their relationship, a bond that was unstable to begin with – generally because Leslie, now twenty-five, is still as unpredictable as the day Sebastian adopted him.

The kid’s a complete mess…

 _No, he’s no longer a kid_ , Sebastian reminds. Better yet, tries to convince himself regardless of the way Leslie still acts immature and distant most of the time. But honestly, can Sebastian really blame him?

Leslie saw his whole family murdered right in front his eyes, a _privilege_ that came with being the last victim on the _Elk River_ serial killer’s list, before Sebastian Castellanos arrived on scene and ruined those plans. Though that didn’t mean the case was a wrap, it was more like a case that ended in a lot of misery. Not just because the perpetrator was never caught, but because a child was left homeless.

That child being Leslie, whom Sebastian took in and gave a home, seeing as the boy clung to him like a scared child would a parent after he was found hiding under his bed.

But even though Leslie was cleaned up and given a safe place to stay, there was nothing Sebastian could do about the night terrors that followed. Terrors that woke the boy in the dead of night almost every day of the week, and his condition didn’t just stop at the spontaneous outbursts of fear.

It ranged from fits of panic when there was a loud noise, to disjointed ramblings and confusion, and nowadays Leslie couldn’t even hold a conversation – just repeat words.

 _Hurts, hospital,_ and _fine._

Words that had no meaning to Sebastian, and his head feels miffed just thinking about them. The whole situation… It’s one big nest of a mess on his nerves and it’s wearing him down. He knows it is. He can feel it in his forehead, the way his wrinkles crease above his eyes when he tries to look pensive, and now’s no different.

_“You ready?”_

Kidman’s return snaps Sebastian from his thoughts, her voice every kind of tedious as she secures the straps of her shoulder holsters, and he snorts.

“You know what they say…” Sebastian pushes past her with his usual pine before opening the double doors of the office with both hands to leave and step into the fresh night air. The city lights making the metropolis around appear alive and aware, despite the late hour and thinning traffic, and after a short breath he electronically unlocks his car from across the parking lot with no smile to match his wit. “No rest for the wicked.”

Because Detective Sebastian Castellanos is just that… _Wicked_.


	2. The Message

The crime scene in front of Beacon Mental Hospital looks like one, big patriotic light show – the reds, whites, and blues of the police lights from the parked squad cars flashing like crazy as Sebastian and Junior Detective Kidman pull up just outside of the large gates.

There’s a soft drizzle sprinkling the windshield, the wipers smearing the image of the darkened hospital towering overhead as the car brakes to a stop.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, so be on your guard.” Sebastian’s unbuckling his seat belt as he talks, the exhaustion in his voice noticeable now, seeing as it was a thirty-minute drive over. His hands are trembling, an aberrant tremble, not really obvious when he’s moving around, only when he reaches across Kidman’s lap to fish through the glove box for another hopeful pack of cigarettes.

“You OK?” Kidman remains patient in his search, but her eyes are sharp. They always are.

“I will be once I find a damn smoke.” Sebastian quips, wanting to blame his nerves and quiver on a withdrawal. But he knows it’s not _just_ that, and after a few shuffles he slams the compartment shut, empty-handed. “Never mind… Let’s go.”

The small talk’s behind them for now, and each car door is swung wide at a different pace as they both exit into the light rain. Sebastian in the lead, who crouches under the yellow tape first then lifts it high for Kidman to follow. And it’s only when they push deeper into the crime scene that they’re noticed.

_“Detectives!”_

Sebastian turns around to see a man in uniform jogging his way, his face masked by the backlight behind. “Connelly?” He assumes as he shields his eyes with a hand in a jagged squint. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry about earlier.” Connelly motions off in some direction like he’s pointing to a cell tower he knows is in the distance as he joins them. “Reception’s been crapping out over here all night. It’s like a dead zone if you’re halfway across the city.”

“What happened here?” Kidman’s straight and to the point with her question, like usual, and Sebastian sometimes wonders why he still even considers her a rookie. But praise can come later.

“Connelly, why so many units?” Sebastian chips in, trying not to lose face. But honestly, he’s never seen more than three or four police cars gathered in one spot before. Not in this city, at least, and that has him on edge.

Just like Connelly’s expression, which’s something Sebastian can't really read into, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen it before.

“Follow me… and watch you might want to your step.” Connelly starts walking towards the entrance of the hospital, signaling for Kidman and Sebastian to keep up. “We got the call about an hour ago… Seems someone heard a scream, and when we got here…”

There are puddles of blood coating the porch stairs, spray on the front, double-wooden doors too.

“Well, let’s just say it’s not pretty.” Connelly finishes, trying to sound diplomatic. But all it does is make him out to be brassier than anything. The type Kidman always seems to be uptight around.

“Murders never are.” She corrects, poised in her speech and posture – a straight back and slow walk that reflects in her shoulders while she waits for Sebastian to say something.

But he isn’t paying attention.

Sebastian’s too busy doing his job, assessing the scene and taking notes. _Mental notes_ , as Joseph would scold him from time to time, _which aren’t as articulate as good, hard data_. Except since he’s not here to hound him, Sebastian thinks he can get away with habit. But he’s so far gone in his own head that he doesn’t even hear Connelly talking to him and only manages to grasp the end of the conversation by the time he refocuses.

_“Looks like you’ve got better service than I do.”_

The light scar on Sebastian’s left brow feels tighter when he glances to Connelly, who helps him up to speed with what he’s missed.

“Your phone.” He nods. “You gonna answer it, or what?”

Sebastian stops just short of the hospital’s entrance before absentmindedly giving himself a quick frisk, locating his buzzing mobile in the back pocket of his pants after a few tries. He pulls it out and checks caller ID, but doesn’t get much – seeing as the number is _unknown_ …

“When you’re done, you can find me inside.” Connelly dismisses dutifully, Kidman on his heels, as they both leave Sebastian to take the call.

“I’ll catch up.” Sebastian mutters ditheringly and turns his back, clearing his throat before sliding to answer, wearily. “Hello?”

But there’s no reply, only a pitching silence that seems to expand as the seconds march on. It’s an annoying sting, which has Sebastian’s lip curling and pulling his phone away from his ear briefly, prior to putting it back after the noise dies down a notch.

“Is anybody there?” Sebastian double-checks his screen to make sure the call didn’t conk out like Connelly’s had earlier, because of the bad reception. But when it’s still connected, Sebastian walks himself back out near the lighthouse obelisk in the center of the hospital’s roundabout to see if he can get a better signal. Except just as he does whoever’s on the other end hangs up.

“What…” Sebastian stares at the dropped call, which only lasted a few seconds, before quickly pressing redial and sticking it back to his ear again. But just as he does he hears it – a soft _melody_ coming from somewhere nearby. Sebastian pulls a gradual three-sixty where he stands, glancing between all the other cops and units loitering around.

A coincidence?

Probably, but something catches Sebastian’s eye in the hospital window on the second story that makes him think otherwise. There’s a dull glow, something small – like a cell phone – and as soon as it goes out Sebastian’s redial drops abruptly, which could only mean one thing…

Whoever was on the other end was here too, _inside_ the crime scene, and Sebastian doesn’t waste any time with his dash. He rips through the front doors of the hospital, stepping into the lobby and into the bloodbath, which he overlooks in a hurry.

“What’s wrong?” Kidman speaks up first, sensing the urgency. Though it’s more like Sebastian’s wild expression, which has her ready to act.

“Cover the exits!” Sebastian orders, sounding like a tangible detective now, not just a brooding man craving a cigarette and complaining about time. “There’s someone on the second story!”

“What? But that’s where we found the—”

Sebastian doesn’t wait to hear the rest of Connelly’s sentence, important or not. Instead, he pushes through the doors to his right, dashing down the hallway and into the building’s only elevator – where he taps the button display for floor two, repeatedly. “Come on… come on!”

It feels like forever when the old-fashioned winch doors finally close, the lift ascending to the second story, where it stops, and Sebastian squeezes past the gate without even letting it fully part. And the next thing he knows he’s counting doors like windows, only to catch a glimpse of something – or someone – standing amidst the darkness of the room he needs.

The one with his phantom caller.

“Stop!” Sebastian guides himself into the entry with his body, shoulder against the door, cracking it wider just as there’s a flash of lightning, which lights up the room, empty, and the bloody wall on his right. A partition with a single word etched into the wallpaper, reading:

**_Mine._ **

_“Takes you back, doesn’t it?”_

Sebastian whips around to see Connelly finally bringing up the rear through the doorway behind.

“Is this… what you wanted to show me?” Sebastian points at the writing, briefly remembering what was said to him over the phone while at the office. “ _In person_?”

“Figured you’d wanna see it yourself. Otherwise knowing you, you wouldn’t believe me.” Connelly uses his flashlight to highlight some sections of the wall in a subtle flick. “The blood’s still wet, meaning it hasn’t been here long.” He moves the beam to Sebastian’s face after he steps closer. “Now, are you _sure_ you saw someone up here?”

Sure or not, Sebastian’s mind is on fire. The message. It’s the same one left by the Elk River serial killer ten years ago, and panic washes over Sebastian as he puts the pieces of the puzzle together. It was a meaningful word back then, a word meant for one person, and one person only…

“Leslie…” Sebastian’s breath leaves his lips like he’s winded, and that’s before he’s actually sprinting; showing himself out like he’s afraid the roof’s about to collapse on him any second. Past the extra officers huddling in the hallway, down the elevator again and out into the roundabout – completely ignoring the fact that he was Kidman’s only ride as he jumps into his car and speeds home.

Everything’s a blur, and Sebastian doesn’t even remember running three red lights, not until he’s pulling into his driveway and bolting up the porch steps of his house. But screw the tickets. After one quick breath, Sebastian kicks a foot into the front door, knowing that Leslie really never locks it, even though he’s told him what feels like a thousand times, and Sebastian’s almost pained to find it won’t budge.

“Leslie!” Sebastian ignores the tingling ache in his leg as he resorts to banging with a fist in a half-hearted knock, giving the door one last shove with his shoulder before it surprisingly gives – and the next time he blinks he’s flogging forward and into the foyer.

The door… someone opened it? It’s all Sebastian can think as he grovels on the ground, groveling from the impact as he rolls onto his back to get a better look at who greeted him. “Leslie?”

_“The worrying type, I see.”_

“Tatiana?” Sebastian watches as his house nurse steps out from behind the door, her auburn hair seemingly darker in the dim light. “Leslie… Is he alright?”

“Why yes.” Tatiana smooths the door shut, her features lightening into something a little less intimidating and jaded as the shadows fall from her face. “Everything is fine. I put him to bed a little over an hour ago. However, he’s going to wake up if you don’t keep your voice down.”

The last part sounds like a warning, but Sebastian brushes it off with his relief as he pushes himself off the floor.

“Thank god.” It comes across as a groan, and after making himself comfortable in the living room, Sebastian pulls up a chair – which he almost misses in his sit. But his scoot helps, and before he knows it Tatiana’s in the kitchen, pouring what smells like fusty coffee. Funny, he didn’t remember seeing her walk past him, meaning he was more exhausted than he thought.

“You don’t look so good. Did something happen?” Tatiana sounds programmed, always, and Sebastian can only wonder if she hates her job that much as she puts the cup down in front of him in a slapdash fashion.

“Not really.” Sebastian avoids eye contact, but most of all, the details. “Just this case I’m working on…” He picks up the mug, reluctant to take a sip at first and just leans back in the chair to get the twinge out of his spine. A pinch that’d been with him the last couple weeks, reminding him of his age – two years short of forty. “Seems it’s got something to do with one of my old flames.”

Sebastian means it as a joke, suggesting he’s married to his work, something he finds himself wishing to divorce every once in a while too. But Tatiana doesn’t smile, she never smiles.

Instead, she hums something about an, _“I see.”_ and begins to gather her things, which has Sebastian ruffling a hand through his dark hair, feeling like he should take a shower, but he’s just too damn tired. From worry and work.

“How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow with the total.” Tatiana says, like a mind-reader, as she nears the door. But that’s before she stops in thought and gets this aura about her, back still turned, and after a small pause she sighs. “He was waiting for you, you know. Wouldn’t let me cut the cake without you.”

“Leslie? Yeah… I was—”

“Busy.” Tatiana finishes Sebastian’s sentence for him, like she’s heard the excuse in the past, and without looking back she dismisses herself, objectively. “I know. I told him.”

And just like that she’s gone, leaving Sebastian with her words and his untouched cup of coffee. A drink he wishes was stronger, and after taking a minute to replenish his strength, Sebastian rises in a grumble and limps towards the next room – his mini bar beside the fireplace – where he swaps his mug for a shot glass off the counter and pours himself some whiskey, which he drinks without even putting the bottle down.

But just as Sebastian fills his glass for another round, bringing it to his lips again, he forces his mouth to take it slower. He can’t drown his troubles in the bottle like he used to, not after doing so well these last few years, and settles for a sip instead. One, small sip at a time, and after Sebastian recaps the whiskey, he’s dragging his feet to his favorite leather couch nearby, where he coasters his unfinished glass for the night before tentatively easing into a sit.

The cushions feel heavenly, and Sebastian groans amidst his lean into the support, a remarkable difference when compared to his desk chair at work and it’s not surprising when he’s out like a light in no time – missing his son, who’s slinking downstairs to see him.

Leslie stands in the archway, fiddling with his fingers as he glances around. He looks insecure, slightly anxious when realizing how still the house is. How alone he is in the darkness, and his dull eyes stop at a blanket folded on the edge of the couch, which he shuffles closer to grab so he can shabbily cover Sebastian up.

But the blanket’s not long enough to drape his feet and chest, and Leslie resorts to tugging the fabric, stretching it until he almost falls over. He bumps Sebastian, who ruffles at the gesture but doesn’t wake, and for a minute Leslie just watches him. The way he breathes, air in short puffs, how it feels on his face.

It’s alluring, and Leslie doesn’t realize he’s leaning so close until he feels something prickling the base of his neck, which has him back to working at his fingers as he straightens his spine. His arms are tense as he looks around, and they only grow more rigid when he sees someone standing outside the window.

A man.

And Leslie gasps, his methodical instinct to run and hide kicking into gear as he ducks behind the couch. But only for a few minutes, and after what seems like ten of clenching his eyes shut, Leslie peeks back over the sofa to get a better look past the curtains.

Expect there’s no one there… Just a flickering streetlight.


	3. The Nightmare

Smoke.

It’s faint but Sebastian can definitely smell it when he stirs from the couch, right until the very moment he’s on his feet. But once he’s up the source is besides him. It’s not coming from the fireplace, or the tray he likes to stack high with his cigarette ash. Except the air’s hazy, almost a midnight blue, so he knows he’s not imagining things just yet…

But as for seeing things?

Sebastian hopes there’s a good reason why all his papers from work are swept off the coffee table and the glass of whiskey he left on the nearby coaster before falling asleep is knocked on its side and spilling into the rug. Because damn, that carpet was expensive, and he makes to stop the drip first, scooping the glass in one try only to handle it like a dead rat before noticing weird scribbles of red crayon marking up the wooden floor next. Then when his eyes travel further, the wall, the doorway. Simply put – everywhere, and his shoulders drop.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me… Leslie!”

In the blink of an eye Sebastian’s at the bottom of the stairs and calling up. He doesn’t even remember moving either, just… thinking about it, and after a second of just staring into darkness and silence he lets it go. Just like that – out of thought, out of mind, and soon he’s making his way to the kitchen sink to rinse his glass for no reason but to feel the warm water on his hands. Except just as he turns the tap on something catches the corner of his eye – a murky shadow dancing on the wall inside his office.

“Leslie?” Sebastian leaves his cup on the counter to push across the hall and open the double, glass doors to his den, flicking on his desk light. “You in here—”

The bulb short circuits unexpectedly and Sebastian flinches in a deep squint then a growl. Great. Now he can’t see anything but blotches of white, and after feeling across his desk he cranks open his top draw to fish for his flashlight, the trusty heavy duty he keeps on hand. Not because black outs happen often, but because of Leslie’s fear of the dark. Kid never grew out of it as a child, and after Sebastian finds it he turns it on with a quick click just as there’s a rumble of thunder in the distance.

Compared to what Sebastian remembers earlier from the crime scene it sounds like the storm’s picked up. Although when it happens again, this time he thinks it almost sounds like pots and pans clattering to the ground, but just as he starts to turn back towards the kitchen something else catches his ear.

A grating noise, almost like… scratching?

Sebastian swings the beam of the flashlight to his right and nearly jumps when a flash of lightning peeks through the window behind his desk and casts a glow on someone hunching next to the bookshelf at the back, and instinctively he reaches for his gun. But that’s before he realizes he removed his holster earlier when getting comfortable… That, and he recognizes the figure.

“Tatiana?” Sebastian squints like he’s not too sure if he can trust his eyes just yet. Especially when she looks like she’s rummaging wildly through something. Her purse? From where he’s standing it’s hard to tell, and against his better judgment he takes a step forward and calls out. “Forget something?”

It looks like she did, but if he’s wrong she’s not correcting him either, and Sebastian only lets the silence hold long enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. Because maybe it’s as simple as that – that she didn’t hear him. He does still have some sleep in his voice, after all. But when Tatiana doesn’t even reply after a minute, impatience has Sebastian clearing his throat to try again.

“Did Leslie call you?”

That’s the only other reason he can think of why she’d be here, at his house, this late at night… Or was it morning? These last couple days it’s been hard to tell because of the rain, and Sebastian glances down at his watch before shining it with the flashlight. Except the faceplate’s cracked and he can’t read the numbers.

Shit, just what he needs, something else to fix, and out of habit Sebastian rakes his eyes over to the antique clock in the opposite corner of his den. He hasn’t found the time to repair that timepiece yet either, but it’s been on his list of things to do ever since last week, when he accidentally broke the—

Sebastian feels his eyes thin like his breath when they finally catch up with the beam of his flashlight against the face of the antique clock. The large hand… He’s pretty sure he snapped that piece of junk in half last week, so how the hell was it still spinning? Better yet, rotating like an eyeball would in its socket. Unless…

“Am I… dreaming?”

Without pulling his gaze from the clock, Sebastian carefully takes a step back. Then a couple more, right until he’s bumping into Tatiana – who’s no longer crouched. She’s standing, inches from Sebastian’s nose when he turns around, and when she opens her mouth he almost wants to answer his own question. But Tatiana beats him to it.

**_“Now what makes you think that?”_ **

Her voice is wrapped like her face, most of her features replaced by multiple, fleshy tentacles that are wriggling and stretching out towards him, and intuitively Sebastian shoves her away.

But the force is enough to stagger himself, and after a second of just tottering he’s falling. First over his own two feet, then into the edge of his desk, which later sends him sprawling onto the floor like a drunk who’s had one too many. A feeling Sebastian can relate to because of his past-abuse with the bottle, but he likes to think of himself as refined… only until he rolls onto his back, though.

And when Sebastian finally flutters his eyes open with a breathless moan and hazy blink, Tatiana’s looming over him with the glass he’d set on the kitchen counter earlier. Except when he looks closer it’s not empty. The damn thing’s full, filled to the brim with alcohol, and once she begins to tilt it in a pour the stream seems endless.

It splashes over Sebastian’s face, stinging his vision first and while he’s still preoccupied with scrubbing above his nose it continues to drench his entire body – up until he’s soaked to the bone from head to toe, which’s around the same time Tatiana finally decides to stop.

She withdraws her arm and sets the glass on Sebastian’s desk, distinctly and with enough force that he can hear it despite his continual curses and hacks for air. But she’s not done, only switching her focus elsewhere as Sebastian finds out when he hears something else… a sound more frightening than false security.

A match.

Tatiana just lit a goddamn _match_ and Sebastian’s spine coils with anticipation before he even feels the heat… or hears her last words.

**_“Goodnight… Detective Castellanos.”_ **

They’re just as demented as the first time she spoke, and before Sebastian has a chance to gape in horror he can already sense the flames beginning to eat away at him. They’re hot, but most of all, _paralyzing_. A sensation he’s felt before in the past for other reasons and gradually he can make out a pinging noise among his screams. It’s a shrill peeping, also eye-opening, and then next thing Sebastian knows he’s rolling off his couch – _awake_ , and overshadowed by the house’s fire alarm.

Better yet smoke… _Real smoke_.

The whole ceiling’s billowing with it, and Sebastian’s off the floor in flash, skidding into the kitchen just in time to see Leslie trying to suppress a flaming saucepan on the stove.

“Goddammit!” Sebastian pulls his son away from the burning linoleum and quickly uses a dishrag to slide the pan off the burner and into the sink, which sizzles like rioting gunfire when he turns the water on.

Leslie tenses at the noise and brings his hands up to his ears in a recoil. “Sorry.” He almost sounds scared. “I’m sorry…” Also ashamed.

Except Sebastian can’t find the strength to feel angry – even if the house was almost set aflame and once everything’s calmed down he moves to open the kitchen window to help air out the place.

“No. I should be apologizing…” He grunts over his shoulder before walking back in front of his son to rest a hand on his head. “Are you alright?”

“Hurts…” Leslie cuddles his fingers and brings them close enough to his lips to make it look like he’s whispering to them, like they’re all children he’s trying to comfort. “Hurts…”

At the notion, Sebastian instinctively reaches out for Leslie’s hands. “Did you burn yourself?” He hopes not, and after a quick once-over he’s relieved to find they’re only covered in dried batter, burn-free, which brings about his next question regarding the pan and that… floating lump of something or rather. “Were you… trying to make me breakfast?”

“Make me breakfast…” Leslie’s attention strays slightly, like he doesn’t know where to start, but after a minute he manages to catch himself. “You. Make _you_ breakfast…”

“Leslie, you didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to…” Leslie’s voice lowers with his eyes, like he thinks he’s being scolded, and Sebastian’s chest feels tight with rot before he even reaches out to take his son by the shoulders.

It’s a gesture he means to back with letting the kid know his efforts haven’t gone to waste, because it’s as most people would agree – _it’s the thought that counts_ , and in Sebastian’s case it does, more than Leslie probably knows.

“How about we cook something together when my shift’s over tonight? Would you like that?”

Without even having to ask again, Leslie’s eyes snap to his. They’re bright and the happiest Sebastian’s ever seen them and he smiles despite not being told they have a deal. Because they don’t really need words, he thinks, not with Leslie, not when they’ve both learned to look past them.

“Good.”

But technology? Sebastian makes a face when he hears his cell phone blare like a siren from the next room. It’s only his alarm, something he can’t remember if he set himself last night or not, but either way he’s dragging his feet back to the couch to shut it off with a groan. Not just because it ruined his father-son moment with Leslie, but because that specific tune means he has to leave for work in the next ten minutes.

 _Five_ , if he wants to pick up a pack of cigarettes, and hell, he’s been craving one since yesterday, which’s unashamedly emphasized with his sigh.

“Alright, kid. You know the drill.” Sebastian nabs his coat off the arm of the couch and gives Leslie a quick peck on the forehead after he’s walked to the front door. “Just, uh… stay away from the kitchen today, OK? Let Tatiana worry about it when she gets here. It’s what she’s paid to do.”

“Do…”

“That’s right.” Sebastian feints, seeing as Tatiana’s a _nurse_ and not a maid, but he doesn’t think it’s important to include that small detail, not when it means Leslie’ll try and clean the kitchen himself. So Sebastian leaves it as that as he frisks the pockets of his pants for the keys to his car. “I’ll call later for ingredients. You remember where the recipes are, right?”

Leslie nods, and Sebastian runs a hand through the kid’s hair again in a quick ruffle, then his own, knowing he asks way too many questions for a laid-back dad – though it’s more like overprotective. But who can blame him?

“Great… How do I look? Awake?”

Sebastian knows the answer to that even before Leslie tips his eyes to the left and pinches his lips. Being a detective it’s not hard to guess what that means and once he sees it he takes it as his cue to leave. Out the house, down the driveway and into the car, where he sits for a minute just to take in the fresh air and let himself relax. Except he unwinds only as far as gripping the steering wheel before he looks down at his hands because that shake from yesterday’s still there, wrecking them, and Sebastian’s smart enough to know it’s not nerves.

Not when it has to do with _that_ …

For the meantime though a cigarette will have to do, Sebastian tells himself, and when he finally slides the car out of the driveway that’s where he heads first – the convenient store a few blocks from the main highway to grab a pack of smokes, and once he has one in his hands it’s not long before he’s standing in front of the office and ripping into the box. Because… God.

Just the smell of the fresh pack has Sebastian’s stomach twisting with an internal craving and he closes his eyes when he conclusively slips a stick into his mouth. Only long enough to sift through his pockets for a match though, and when he finds one he carefully strikes it against his thigh. With a sizzling hiss it lights and Sebastian doesn’t waste any time singeing the tobacco in the tip despite his nightmare, and after it glows a bright red he ditches the small piece of wood, takes a deep drag and turns towards the parking lot to let out his intake.

But just as he does – he’s wafting right into Joseph’s face.

“You… really ought to stop that, Seb.” Through a cough, Joseph fans a hand in front of his nose – a nose that’s got to be the most sensitive Sebastian’s ever known. “It’s unhealthy.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Sebastian snorts bleakly through another puff of smoke, purposely sounding more like he’s savoring it… which he is. “I’m trying.”

“Clearly not hard enough.” Joseph observes, reproachfully and in a tone that causes Sebastian to ruffle his shoulders in stubbornness, a half shrug, and Joseph almost wants to rolls his eyes. But that’s before they spot Sebastian’s trench coat, then pants. “Are you still wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

“What are you, my mother?”

“Don’t patronize me, _Sebastian_.” The nickname’s snuffed as quickly as Joseph whips the cigarette from Sebastian’s mouth and tosses it beneath their feet, where it’s ground with a heel for good measure. “You may not think so, but I care about your health.”

Is Joseph… blushing? Sebastian almost wants to think he is. But after a second of just watching, he realizes that the flushed look on his partner’s face isn’t because he’s embarrassed, not when Joseph slowly takes off his glasses and shakes his head lightly, allowing himself just enough of a pause to pinch at the skin between his eyes in a soft moan.

“Another migraine?” Sebastian asks, this time gently, knowing that Joseph gets them often – ever since they were assigned Kidman as a rookie, which he can only assume means it’s stress-related. But like always it doesn’t stop him from worrying. It never will. “You should really get that looked at. An MRI, maybe?”

“It’s nothing…” Joseph mumbles, in an undertone that sounds like he wants them to get off the subject, one that’s all the more noticeable when he makes the motion to slide his glasses back on. But when all’s said and done, he doesn’t get them any higher than his chest.

“Leave them off.” Sebastian makes sure to be extra careful when catching Joseph’s wrists, because of the wound still mending on his shoulder, and when Joseph doesn’t fight the hold Sebastian moves closer to lift and press his thumbs into his partner’s temples in a light massage. “I’m told this helps…”

From who? It’s a question Joseph looks like he wants to ask, but he doesn’t give his curiosity the pleasure. Instead, settles for something less inquisitive and more direct. “I… I said _I’m fine_ , Seb.”

No, he didn’t. But it’s his face that says it all – _please don’t stop_. It’s even in his grunts and the lidding of his eyes. Except when they open again all color flees from Joseph’s face. Then his hands, one of which shoots up to rest atop Sebastian’s in a sudden halt.

“Sebastian.”

Sebastian stops, reluctantly, but keeps his hands where they’re at, thinking it’s only Kidman Joseph sees behind them. But so what? She’s seen them like this once before… maybe a few times more. Except when Joseph physically pushes him away to put his glasses back on and points somewhere behind him, Sebastian realizes it’s not that simple…

“Tell me I’m not just seeing things.”

With his interest peaked, Sebastian finally lets himself grouse in turn, but what he glimpses next churns it into something more – and it’s not just the people grouped together on the street that Joseph’s motioning at. Better yet, it’s what’s _in_ the middle of the street that has everyone gawking and Sebastian deadpans.

“Shit…”

There’s someone roaming dangerously in the crosswalk, a man, stalling cars and turning new heads by the minute. What’s more, he looks like an escaped patient – the logo on the shirt surprisingly a familiar one.

“He appears to be from Beacon Mental Hospital.” Joseph sounds so sure of himself as he readjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and Sebastian backs him with a nod.

“Yeah, but what’s he doing so far from home?”

 _Home,_ being the mental asylum he’s seemingly crawled out of, and Sebastian wants to get to the bottom of it. That, and get the guy out of the street before he causes an accident, which would mean more paperwork… and that’s the last thing on his list to be doing so early in the morning.

“Hey!” Sebastian calls out before he even has a chance to cross the street, which not only captures the patient’s attention but keeps the man fixed long enough for the light to change red, and when all cars stop Sebastian doesn’t squander any time with his approach. “Are you lost? Do you know where you are?”

“What’s your name?” Joseph asks, edging Sebastian with his chin like that should’ve been his first question.

But in the end it doesn’t matter what they ask or how they ask it, the result’s still the same. The patient simply tilts his head and widens his eyes, like he recognizes them, or at least finds some small detail entrancing, before bolting in the opposite direction – just as the light switches green and only Sebastian manages to make it across, leaving Joseph behind a wall of traffic.

_“…Seb!”_

Most of Joseph’s voice is drowned by the beeping of horns, but Sebastian doesn’t have the strength to will his legs to stop. He’s too busy tracking the patient like a hound on the sidewalk before losing some distance down a neighboring alley, where he slews to a stop and whips out his gun from under his trench.

“You’re not getting away that easily!” Sebastian takes aim, seeing as there’re no civilians to get caught in the crossfire now. Plus, he thinks he can get away with capping the guy, and after a steady breath he closes one eye and pulls the trigger. Except just as he does his gun chokes.

 _Out of ammo?_ Sebastian can’t fucking believe it, seems he goes through more bullets than razors in a week, and out of reflex he re-holsters his gun and quickly searches for the nearest, blunt object – which happens to be a bottle next to a trash can, and pretty soon he’s diving for it.

_“What are… you doing!”_

“Improvising.” Sebastian’s already turning the amber glass in his hands by the time Joseph finally manages to catch up to him. Looks like he’d found another way across the lanes without having to deal with the lights, and habit has Sebastian focusing more on his target than Joseph’s unease.

“Obviously… But from here? How good’s your aim?”

“We’re about to find out.” Sebastian bounces the bottle once, like he’s testing the weight, before taking a stance and chucking it with all his might.

In less than a second, the glass is whistling through the air like a missile and just before the patient has a chance to run out of sight it smashes over his head. A perfect bullseye, and the man crumbles like a wet blanket, staying unconscious just long enough for Joseph and Sebastian to jog over and apprehend him.

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little _too_ rash with your actions?”

How Joseph still manages to juggle reproach _and_ gratitude is beyond Sebastian, but he takes it with a grain of salt.

“You’re welcome.” Sebastian sides, taking more into consideration the fact that he just saved them from a longer chase and any chance of the patient hurting others when he pulls out his cuffs and slaps them around the man’s wrists. “What should we do with him?”

“That _is_ the question…” Joseph sighs. “We could take him to the station? But…”

“They don’t have the room.” Sebastian finishes, naturally, well aware that his partner’s reflecting back to the conversation they’d had with Connelly during the week prior – about the rising crime rate and crammed cells. “Guess we better get him home then…”

“Right.” Joseph takes out his notebook and gives it a small wave. “I don’t know about you, but I’d very much like to know why this man’s escaped in the first place.”

“You and me both.” Sebastian grunts as he finally pulls the patient to his feet, singlehandedly, before nodding back the way they came. “So let’s go get some answers.”

And just like that Sebastian finds himself parked in front of Beacon Mental Hospital again, a place he’s beginning to think harbors more secrets than solutions… some no doubt far worse than the skeletons in his own closet.

Skeletons that sooner or later are going to come back to haunt him.


	4. The Doctor

Beacon Mental Hospital.

Just last night the place was crawling with cops and dead bodies, now look at it – back in the saddle, seeming like the massacre never happened.

 _That’s business for you._ Sebastian thinks as the entrance doors slam shut behind him, trapping him with the sight of mopped floors and the stinging smells of bleach. His nose cringes at the odor, wrinkling his whole face enough to show his displeasure before being reminded of the swarm of reporters outside. Those wanting the newest buzz on his involvement with last night’s case, he’s sure. The very same who also stalked him all the way from the car after he parked it.

It’s a good thing the patient he’s escorting now is only subsidiary to the situation. As for irrelevant? That’s for him to decide later.

Sebastian shakes the man he has in custody as a mental note of his reason for revisiting so soon. The man doesn’t resist the handle, but Joseph clears his throat in a warning. Whether he means to _behave_ or _go easy_ is up for interpretation, but Sebastian pays the tone no heed as they walk further into the institution. Instead, he puts all of his attention on the small television in the passing waiting room, groaning inwardly as he catches a glimpse of himself on the screen.

It’ll never fail to amaze him how the cameramen always seem to capture the worst possible angle of his face. Using the collar of his trench coat usually works as a buffer, but since he had to shed it in order to shield the patient’s head during their walk from the car it’s left him exposed.

 _Dammit._ Sebastian stops walking to brush at some of the stubbles on his chin. He knew he should’ve shaved during the ride over, provided Leslie practically told him he looked like a mess, but he didn’t have the sense to think beyond his nicotine craving at the time. By now he’s regretting his shortsightedness, especially when seeing how he looks in broad daylight and how certain shadows are being accentuated on his face – the dark bags under his eyes, the wrinkles around them – making it appear as if he’s seen better days.

Today should be one of those days, but with everything that’s been going on Sebastian’s mind is elsewhere. Coming here to Beacon he was hoping to regain some of his focus, focus on what’s in front of him, not all around him. Only, that idea flopped the very minute he walked into the hospital.

Sebastian can’t help but notice his surroundings, how his shadow blurs across the extremely reflective floors and becomes lost among the marble tiles, or how the janitor’s left a yellow _CAUTION: Wet Floors_ sign sitting in the open in the hall to his immediate left… the hall he knows was filled with blood last night, the very same that led him up to the second story where he found that message on the wall.

_**Mine.** _

Sebastian pits a shiver when he puts the word into his own voice inside his head, unable to leash his inner detective. For once he’d like to walk into a setting and see it as it is, not scrutinize it by what he’s seen, but he guesses that’s just how he functions. How he’s _always_ functioned. All it takes is one look at the crime scene and the details are ceaselessly committed to memory, this also includes last night.

Sebastian’s brain won’t let him stop thinking about how the killer’s right-handed, or that since the pressure of the handwriting was heavy and had a Slant D type to it, it means the person they’re looking for is uptight, emotionless, and has complete self-control. A real head case. Sebastian knows the kind. Having dealt with corrupt politicians and crude street thugs weekly has left him sensitive to the facts, which’s why he figures that the culprit also has an open imagination just from the dotting of the letter _i_ , all because the blotch was a little higher above the rest of the words than usual.

Sebastian nods to himself. If someone stepped up to him right now and told him he’s damn fine at his job, he wouldn’t deny it. He’d overtly go into raptures over the praise with a self-asserted sneer, but the probability of that happening’s almost slim to none. Because he’s such a pain in the ass to work with, a real mean dog in the field, no one ever approaches him. No one except those closest to him, at least.

_“Seb? Is something wrong? You’ve been spacing out and sighing to yourself for the past minute and a half.”_

Trust Joseph to be keeping count.

Sebastian glances over his shoulder to catch his partner wearing his usual expression. Worry. He recognizes it by the small pinch of skin between Joseph’s eyes, a pinch of skin that’ll eventually turn into a permanent crease if he keeps it up. Sebastian already has plenty to compare, many from years of hard processing and associating himself with hooligans and the like. Catching a runaway patient’s a first and he shakes the man by the gown again to keep him in check. Likewise, to stop him from looking around the hospital like it’s… well, a fucking _hospital_.

Sebastian doesn’t need the visual cue any more than he needs to dwell on what’s going on behind every door he can see. His nervous speculation’s enough. The mishandling of needles and the drawing of blood, the x-rays machines that cause cancer and the doctors who poke and prod their patients like they don’t give a damn about anything but the progress of research, not to mention the mayhem of attention thrown into the mix day in and day out. The routine.

To Sebastian, institutions like this are full-size conflagrations of madness, somewhere he doesn’t want to stay loitering around for too long, and he flicks his chin at Joseph before returning his eyes forward. “Let’s just get this over with already—”

_“Walter Egol!”_

A stout doctor in the doorway of what looks like the hospital’s control room puts down his cup of coffee and takes off his reading glasses to get a better look at the patient in Sebastian’s grasp, more noticeably the gash on the man’s forehead.

“Where in God’s name did you find him?”

“Jimenez?” Sebastian mutters in surprise, thankful that neither Joseph nor the doctor hears him.

All things considered, Sebastian never expected to see Jimenez here, _in the city_. The last time they met was at the Hospice across the lake, the week after he adopted Leslie and had to file the paperwork, putting the span at almost a decade – quite the time skip for even the best minds, but Sebastian remembers everything about those nine years prior. Nine and a half, if he wants to be precise, and he does. How could he not? That was the day he turned to new habits and became a father.

_“Walter… Egol, was it?”_

Sebastian blinks away the past, only to note that Joseph’s on track with his pen, scripting some observations he’d jotted down during the drive out of his trusty notebook.

_“He was first sighted wandering aimlessly in the middle of Krimson City. Were you aware he was missing, Dr _._ …”_

“Marcelo. Marcelo Jimenez, and yes.” Marcelo sounds quite ashamed to admit it as he bows his head humbly. “We found his cell empty last night.”

“Last night?” Joseph repeats. The disbelief is audible in his tone as he makes to adjust his glasses, a little antic he does when getting ready to recite the law by heart, but Sebastian manages to cut him off before he bores them both.

“And you didn’t think to call it in?” Sebastian asks, pretending not to notice how he’s just taken the floor from his partner and received a look of obstruction for it.

Marcelo glances between the two of them like he doesn’t know who to answer first, who was _about_ to ask or who _actually_ asked. In the end, he chooses Sebastian with a weary glance, like he’s just now beginning to contemplate if he recognizes him from somewhere.

“We’re currently low on staff at the moment, Detective. The financial status of this hospital isn’t doing as well as it used to. We… simply couldn’t spare the money for a search.”

“He could’ve hurt someone.” Joseph speaks out in a scold, to which Marcelo shakes his head.

“No. No, Walter is a gentle soul. I assure you. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Any reason why he ran when we confronted him?” Sebastian arches a brow at the discrepancy of the statement. Because really, who’s ever heard of an innocent man running? He hasn’t, which brings him to his next and foremost question, something only of interest to him – why is Marcelo _here_? The thought alone is enough to make Sebastian’s hands start shaking again, one of which he quickly slips into his pocket before it becomes too conspicuous, leaving the other thread-deep in the patient’s gown.

“Can you blame him?” Marcelo huffs, seemingly still concerned with the issue at hand. “He hasn’t seen outside these walls in a little over four years. He must have been in shock.”

“ _Must_ have been.” Sebastian parrots before Joseph steps up beside him and readies his pen again, as if to reclaim the floor.

“What was he admitted for?”

Marcelo clears his throat. “Walter suffers from what we call DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

“So he’s crazy.” Sebastian gets a snippy look from Joseph, then Marcelo, who seems more offended for the patient, like he thinks Sebastian’s picking on someone who can’t defend himself… which he technically is.

“When Walter was first admitted to Beacon Mental Hospital he underwent multiple sessions of Hypnosis, but in the end he was unresponsive to all our treatments. As a result we never advanced beyond that first stage. So no, he’s not _crazy_ , Detective.” Marcelo corrects. “A piece of him is merely lost to our modern ways of life, and still living in the past.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Sebastian mumbles, just as Joseph snaps his notebook shut.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, Dr. Jimenez, but I’m filing a report. Letting a patient sustain injuries while under your care is considered medical negligence.” Joseph’s gracious enough to leave out the part where _Sebastian’s_ the one who injured the patient, simply giving him a subtle nod. It’s a gesture meant to say that Sebastian’s lucky to have him as a partner, but he’s only doing it this once – covering for him.

“I am aware of the definition, but I assure you: it will _not_ happen again.” Marcelo bows his head once more, as if to give surety to his words, before eyeing Sebastian with a closer look. “I’m sorry…” He takes a small step forward, voice only loud enough for the two of them. “Do I know you?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer at first. He uses the time it takes Joseph to slip his pen into the closed pages of his notebook to think of something to say, waiting a sentence or two from his partner before figuring out where to jump in with a reply.

“I’m going to need a minute to review the details.” Joseph points to the waiting room, somewhere they can sit quietly and he can write more efficiently if he has to, given that his arm is still on the mend from last week’s shooting. “Sir. If you can come with me—”

“You know what.” Sebastian finally decides to cut in there, nabbing a hold of Joseph’s waist, not wanting to take any chance of hitting his injury. “It was a one-time mistake. They happen.”

“Sebastian?” Joseph tilts his head, a silent performance of his confusion. “What are you doing?”

“We already have his word this won’t happen again. Why pursue it further?” Sebastian shrugs, trying to act like he’s worried about the issue of extra paperwork when in truth he’s anything but. He has something else in mind, something even Joseph doesn’t know about – unlike his misuse of alcohol, and he’s hoping it stays that way. For right now, at least.

The silence tells Joseph that, just not the reason, and he spends a minute trying to read Sebastian’s face, however stoic the idiot tries to keep it. The only recognition he gets, however, is a brow to move on, which leaves him sighing after another good, hard stare. In spite of everything, he’s not paid nearly enough for arguing.

“Guess I’ll… see you at the car then?” Joseph doesn’t sound pleased with the situation, but drops it rather abruptly as he walks away, leaving Sebastian with the doctor.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Sebastian stalls, particularly when figuring that he’s not going to hear the end of this conversation in the car.

“ _Sebastian_ Castellanos.” Marcelo pings, snapping his fingers. “Yes, I thought I recognized you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Almost ten years…” There’s a warm chuckle. “How’s Leslie doing?”

Sebastian grouses, questioning inwardly how he got wrapped up in small talk. “He’s good. Considering.”

“What about Ms. Gutierrez? I heard someone recommended her to you a couple months ago. I really do hope she’s behaving herself. She can be quite— oh, what’s the word I’m looking for…”

“Listen, Doc. I’m here on official business.” Sebastian says, cutting straight through uncontroversial matters. “Now, I’m willing to let this misdemeanor slide, but this has to go both ways in order for this to work.” He digs through one of his back pockets and pulls out his wallet, then a folded piece of paper no bigger than a receipt. He waves the slip a few times before offering it to be taken. “You give me what I want, in return this never happened.”

“And?” Marcelo sounds fishy of the deal, but something on his face says he already knows the price as he takes the paper. “What did you have in mind?”

“Methamphetamine.” It’s a big word with a simpler definition in Sebastian’s head.

Uppers. As much as Sebastian hates to admit it, he needs them. They help keep his narcolepsy under control, a condition brought on a few years back by unmanaged stress. He holds the horror of that damnable case with the Elk Killer responsible for submerging him into a hell he’ll never forget, and it doesn’t help that just recently his sleep patterns and shaking hands have become worse.

In the past week he’s probably only gotten three days worth of sleep. He’s tried making due with a nightly mug of brandy to ease his nerves, only consuming enough to relax him in short intervals, but it’s hard to drink in moderation when alcohol’s been a big part of his life. A substance he’s abused before. Nevertheless, ever since Leslie’s adoption he’s become more conscious about his intake. But since then he’s needed a stimulant with a little more oomph – which’s where the methamphetamine comes in. His daily kick, something to keep him from falling asleep on the job, to elevate his concentration.

“I’ve been taking shots regularly for almost a year now. But this _tremor_ started up a couple weeks ago, a day or two after I ran out. Withdrawal, maybe?”

“With this level of dosage, I would agree.” Marcelo puts his glasses back on to read the label in more detail. “Hold out your hands.” He motions for Sebastian to walk closer, waiting for when he’s within reach to take his palms and turn them over. “Oh dear… this is quite serious.”

“You’re telling me. Usually Valerio handles my prescription…” Sebastian substitutes the words _under the table_ for a pause. “But the funny thing is, I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

Marcelo’s face pales. “Haven’t you heard? Valerio went missing about a month ago.”

“Really now?” There’s a solid glimpse of skepticism in Sebastian’s expression as he retracts his hands. Especially when remembering how he called the week prior and a young woman named Marta had told him, and he quotes; _Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Valerio called in sick this morning, and won’t be coming in to the office today… Would you like to leave a message?_

Sebastian’s left five since then, and not a single one has been returned. Sure, every excuse changed each time he called back, but the apology of Valerio never being there always seemed to stay the same.

“Yes…” Marcelo refolds the prescription in half, and stuffs it into the breast pocket of his lab coat. “Unfortunately, I don’t have what you need at the moment. I’ll have to return to the Hospice tomorrow to pick some up.”

“Were you and your brother close?”

“ _Close_ would be an overstatement.” Marcelo removes his glasses a second time, tucking them away as well before signaling for a nurse to come over from behind the reception desk and procure Walter, who’s been unexpectedly calm throughout the whole deal. “My brother and I have always had our differences when it came to managing our patients, which is why I transferred here instead— to the hospital.”

“Speaking of patients, I’m curious, Doc…” Sebastian holds out his hand firmly, inhibiting the nurse from engaging Walter just yet so he can remove the cuffs. “Where were you last night when Walter here got out? Did you find him missing before or after the murder?”

“ _After_. I sent the staff home early, you see. Most have been working sixty-hour shifts this week alone. I, myself, was in my office all night…” Marcelo hesitates with a deep squint, only now catching Sebastian’s direct tone. “I do hope you’re not considering _me_ a suspect.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “Should I be?”

Marcelo’s chest swells at the accusation. “If you want an alibi, _Detective_ , talk to Ruvik.”

“Who?”

“Ruben Victoriano, my associate. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Marcelo gently takes Walter by the shoulder, nodding at the nurse to do the same before they both lead him away.

Sebastian makes sure to quickly reclaim his jacket from the patient’s head before the opportunity’s lost, fluffing it a couple times once it’s back in his hands before brushing at some of the wrinkles. As he does, his eyes rove up enough to notice a scar on the back of the patent’s skull, located right under the man’s hairline, above the base of his neck. It’s a deep purple mark, puffy and rising off the skin. It doesn’t look like an accidental wound. It looks cruder, like something chronic, surgical, professional. Maybe even _intentional_.

Sebastian stares as long as he can before the man’s too far-gone, which happens to be when Marcelo makes to leave into the other area of the lobby, the double doors to the right. “As you were saying—” Sebastian calls out to the doctor, scolding himself for being distracted by something so small, maybe even nothing. _Maybe_ , though. “Your associate?”

“You can find him on the second floor, in the study…” Marcelo replies before the doors fully close, slowly, almost hauntingly. “He _never_ leaves that room.”


	5. The Meeting

Finding the second floor isn’t as bloodcurdling in the daytime as it had been last night, and Sebastian eventually makes his way there by using the same means he did then.

Now ascending inside the old-fashioned elevator again, trench coat back on his being, he reaches up and pinches at the skin between his tired eyes. Today’s turning out to be more than he’s bargained for, dragging on slowly like the gears of the aged transportation and grinding on his nerves like the rusty sound of chain-work within the walls, and when the doors shortly open with a winery clack it’s almost a relief. Especially when the cage even does one of those harsh stops, platform groaning under his feet, and after jumping out of it like he’s afraid it’s going to fall, by some twist of fate he finds himself revisiting the room where the bloody message of ‘MINE’ was left less than twelve hours prior.

Naturally, however, a line of caution tape prevents him from entering, leaving him standing in the entryway and looking in as a result, but when thinking about it he could also, and with ease, slip under it to do a little more investigating if the thought pleased him. Although, honestly, any evidence would long past be collected and now be in the process of being washed away, so why bother with an unnecessary act?

Exactly, Sebastian decides, and in due course he resumes his undertaking of continuing his search for the study, feeling like a rat corralled in a maze looking for a block of cheese all the while because not once does he come across coherent directions. ER, sluice, ICU, solitary confinement, dispensary, general wards. Some of the names labeled on the walls don’t even line up with the arrows or register as familiar in his head, but then again he _is_ only a detective. Asking him to understand them would be like expecting a professor of history to be erudite about physics. There are areas of expertise within society for a reason, certain knowledge that one is more knowledgeable about than others. The job pool is wide, competition vast, but fortunately no one really needs a degree to appreciate the arts.

Music is expressionistic as preference is preferential.

Sebastian himself isn’t really a listener of any specific genre, but when he starts to hear the faint sound of a piano being played somewhere up ahead he’s intrigued enough to follow the tune as if it’s the spirit of the Pied Piper of Hamelin leading him on. He turns the first corner he comes across, pauses to listen again to make sure he’s going the right way, then continues towards the end of the hall. There, one of the ceiling lights flickers above a doorway like an indicator, and as Sebastian approaches the room he passes a sign that miraculously reads _STUDY_. This is his destination then. Finally, he thinks, and as to not interrupt the player he enters the room like he’s arriving late to a recital, hovering around the door. Only, by then it seems his presence is already known. Ode to joy.

_“I don’t bite.”_

An entrenched voice speaks out from within the room, deep and rooted, and when Sebastian proceeds to step deeper inside he sees a man in a white shirt and black pants sitting at the bench in front of a grand piano. Sebastian can’t define the man’s face just yet, but judging by the man’s overall appearance he’s bandaged, wounded, like he has a head injury. It looks rather severe to be honest, but still the man’s body movement reflects motion. He moves like he’s one with the music he’s playing, notes now rhythmically slower than before at Sebastian’s attendance, and Sebastian soon stalls at the edge of the coffee-colored Persian rug overtaking the floor.

He wouldn’t have suspected the hospital to still have use for such a room like this, but here it is – design untouched by remodeling and sticking true to the Victorian age and the overall structure of the old building. Admittedly, it’s a pleasant change for once, feels more attributing than just stark white walls and glassy floors too, like it takes pride in that touch of Gothic heart, particularly in light of the antique kettle prearranged on the nearby coffee table, tea cups alongside it.

And now that Sebastian’s looking harder, never has he seen such a grand piano as well-polished and kept before as the one here. The java stain of the wood stands out like it’s been refined over and under, weekly or daily, and from where he’s standing he can unmistakably see his reflection peering back at him. The man’s likeness is also cast upon the glossy surface, more noticeably the man’s eyes, which are now making direct contact with his, using their reflections like a mirror.

Sebastian clears his throat. “Mr. Victoriano?” He can only presume. “I’m—”

“ _Ruvik_ , please…” The man pauses, hands splayed over the black and white keys of the piano in a melancholic kind of passion before giving them one final push in the C minor chord. “That name reminds me too much of my father.”

At the mention, Sebastian glances the huge portrait on the wall, one made of oil and wood, as the inscription on the silver plate underneath the frame details. “Ernesto Victoriano.” Sebastian quotes attentively. “Founder of Beacon Mental Hospital.”

“Father was a stern man… put his faith more so in God than science.” Ruvik replies candidly as he keeps his back to Sebastian but currents an arm towards the coffee table with a brief gesture. “Tea?”

“No.” Sebastian tilts his head to some extent when catching what looks like a glimpse of irritated tissue on the back of Ruvik’s retracting hand.

“Suit yourself.” Ruvik slowly rises from the bench, stepping away from it shortly after. His back is still to Sebastian however, which has Sebastian moving closer to be noticed.

“Right then. Mr. _Victoriano_.” Sebastian uses the name deliberately and watches how the man’s back goes straighter in response. “I’m with the Krimson City Police, mind if I take a moment of your time?”

Singlehandedly, Sebastian fishes out his pack of cigarettes as to let Ruvik ponder the question and shuffles a stick up. He regrets how much of a chain smoker he is and how the thought is always at the forefront of his mind, but he’s already quit drinking. Trying to get himself to stop smoking just wouldn’t be fair because there will always come a situation – just like this one – when he’s bored and wants something to chew on, to distract himself with, and better it be a cigarette than gum. Nicotine is much easier to handle than blown bubbles, above all that, though, it’s more tolerable on the ears, which he’s using right now. After all, getting statements are important.

“What is this about, officer…?” Ruvik’s head angles towards him obscurely.

“ _Detective_ ; Castellanos.” Sebastian mumbles past the cigarette now between his teeth as he trawls through his pockets for a loose match. “It’s just a regular routine.”

“Castellanos?” Ruvik’s voice ascends slightly from its standard, monotonous quality, interest in there somewhere. “ _Sebastian_ Castellanos? The police officer in charge of that serial case a couple years ago?”

“More like a decade.” Sebastian corrects as he slows his search, suddenly feeling awkward now that two people in one day have asked him about his name.

“How time flies.” Ruvik muses.

“You a fan or something?” Sebastian asks, arrogant with his question but witty at the same time as he succeeds in lighting his smoke, sharply flicking his wrist to snuff the flame dancing on the match.

Joseph is always telling him that no one gets his sense of humor, as dry as it may be, but Ruvik’s shrug doesn’t look all that affronted to him in the least. The man actually seems more acceptant than anything, and this surprises Sebastian.

“You could say that…” Ruvik says as he finally turns fully around, and Sebastian is unable to help eyes from cringing.

Fuck, those burns. Even under the bandages, Sebastian can see that they cover half of the man’s face like a rash. They’re no doubt old wounds, inured to curious eyes, and he’s still staring when Ruvik points at him – to be more specific, at the cigarette.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to put that out.”

There’s a mild chuckle from Ruvik as Sebastian hurriedly snaps back to attention and looks away from the man’s disfigurement, also the scarred finger now directing his awareness to a _NO SMOKING_ sign, a renowned signage communicating the very message Sebastian is breaking. Sebastian saw identical ones earlier throughout the first floor of the hospital, but there’s no besting the influence of addiction… or ignorance, and as Ruvik stops pointing Sebastian milks one last drag on his cigarette.

Ruvik doesn’t seemed fazed in the least at Sebastian’s need to get the most out of his newborn cig and as Sebastian exhales his intake, Ruvik paces nearer with his arms tucked behind his back, glancing at the other portraits and landscapes hanging around the study like he’s in a gallery until noticing Sebastian staring at his bandages again.

“Do they scare you?” Ruvik nods at his body through one of his glances. “My scars?”

Sebastian lets his eyes remain on Ruvik’s burns this time, not feeling as rude as earlier, and proceeds to slowly move them around Ruvik’s face. In the process, he becomes more aware of how Ruvik’s skin looks much pastier than a normal complexion, like it’s hiding under ten layers of cosmetics. Surely that’s understandable, though. The severity of the wounds alone would keep anyone wanting to steer from the sun at all costs, playing on self-esteem and sensitivity. Damn. Ruvik has had it rough. Sebastian commends the man for having the courage to continue living, but as for feeling fear when looking at such defacement?

“Not really.” Sebastian responds after a minute before licking his fingers and snuffing out his cigarette like a dare for a candle on a birthday cake, soon to shove the wasted stick into his pocket. “Mind me asking how you got them?”

“I do.” Ruvik hums something thoughtful. “As you would.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Your face tells me enough.” Ruvik says as he purposely walks Sebastian by, right under his nose. Sebastian can literally smell the ash on his skin and feel the heat trapped under the man’s burns like the residue on a log after a fire. “You’re haunted… Trust issues. Stressed. You need to get out more.”

“What are you?” Sebastian scoffs. “Some kinda shrink?”

“I prefer to call myself a _scientist_ of the mind.”

“Same thing, right?”

“Depends if your views are that shallow.” A smile reaches Ruvik’s lips when hearing Sebastian make an audible ‘tsking’ sound, and as if proud of the small hurt he’s just applied to Sebastian’s pride – a form of payback, in a sense – Ruvik stops pacing and conclusively gives the detective his attention. “Now, you had a few questions for me?”

“Marcelo Jimenez.” Sebastian gruffs, his query coming off as a full stop while he brings out his notebook like he’s actually going to cite what he’s gathered so far on paper… which is absolutely nothing.

More often than not, he leaves all the writing to Joseph when it’s just the two of them out in the field, and since he’s never really heard his partner bellyache about being the brains among their team of two to his face before, he’ll continue to take Joseph’s acuity for granted until such a day comes. It’s a conceited attitude to have, waiting on others, but in their profession being able to outfox people is territory, as is being patient. Sebastian has a long reputation in using both techniques throughout the job, including assumptions, which is what he’s doing now – presuming that Ruvik can’t see his notes as he keeps his pad angled towards his chest, glancing up for a reaction.

Except like the blank pages of Sebastian’s notepad Ruvik’s face reflects the same emptiness, giving Sebastian absolutely nothing to go on. He can’t read Ruvik at all.

“Marcelo Jimenez …” Sebastian repeats, wrist snapping sharply and bringing his notepad to a close.

“What about him?” Ruvik asks tediously.

“He’s a doctor here.” Sebastian states.

“He is.”

“He says you can vouch for his alibi.” Sebastian pockets his notepad with a grunt. “Can you?”

“What do you think?”

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“You already know the answer to that question; if not all of them, why try to manipulate me just so you can boost your ego?”

Hold on. Sebastian feels his brows knitting deeply. That hasn’t been his motivation at all, or at least not _consciously_. Damn it. Why the hell can’t he filet this fish and get a straight fucking answer?

“Are you done?” Ruvik asks in notice of Sebastian’s bruised expression.

“No—”

“Well, I am. As much as I would love to continue this little _chat_ , I have rounds to make.”

“I’m sure…” Sebastian grumbles, knowing a brush off when he hears one, but digs around in his pants and pulls out his wallet to take out his calling card from one of the sleeves regardless. “Here. I’ll be in touch if I have any other questions.”

“Do think them through next time.” Ruvik heckles as he accepts the offered card, behavior apathetic in emotion before noticing the shake in Sebastian’s withdrawing hand. There’s a smirk then. “You might want to take care of that before it worsens.”

“Working on it.” Sebastian says as composedly as he can as he clenches his fist and pockets it, the embarrassment in the motion clear. “Sorry to waste your time.”

 _“No. Not at all.”_ is the lowly said and lasting response Sebastian hears from Ruvik as they both part ways inside the study, and the message behind it is demeaning by degrees.

Somehow, by good grace and a fast pace, Sebastian manages to put it behind him by the time he’s standing in front of the elevator and pressing the down arrow to call it, but as he waits for the damn doors to open, checks his watch and waits some more, the more he finds himself wishing that he got the last word in, not the other way around. Moderately, his vibrating cell phone helps as a distraction – to some extent, at least – and as he digs for it in his trench coat he equally gets fed up with waiting and takes the nearest door leading to a stairwell, descending towards the first floor. Because of the lank of his legs, it takes him less than ten seconds to conquer sixteen steps, then an extra eight, and as he disappears out the hospital’s side door he finally answers the call.

“Hello?”

The sun whites Sebastian’s vision once he’s outside, and after a couple hard squints he realizes that he’s exiting from the right wing of Beacon, the wing facing the parking lot. Perfect. There’s the car.

“Whoa, hey. Slow down, Leslie.” He laughs as he hears his son’s voice tumbling over incoherent words and ingredients. When the kid’s excited he may think he’s forming sentences as fast as his brain creates them, but all Sebastian hears are a few phrases and he picks up on them like clues. “I said I was gonna call you for— Grilled Pepper Steak, huh? Sounds great, but do you really expect me to remember all that?” He barks another laugh at the answer. “I’m getting too old for this, kid.”

One foot onto cement, Sebastian immediately shies behind Beacon’s wall when he spots lingering reporters barricaded and being held beyond the hospital gates by the local police.

“Shit. What? No, not you…” He cups the receiver of the phone and turns his back to the far-off crowd. “Tell you what, I’ll call you when I’m at the store, and _then_ you can tell me what I need to get, alright? Love you.”

Sebastian can hear Leslie stuttering over a reply, but in the end Leslie hangs up from embarrassment without muttering anything back. Sebastian scoffs lightheartedly as he puts his phone away and heads straight for the car with his head tucked and trench collar up where he shortly finds Joseph leaning against the hood, which’s when Sebastian suddenly remembers that _he’s_ the one who had the keys. Feeling them in his pocket now is like a cruel reminder.

“Whoops.” Sebastian shrugs.

“Don’t.” Joseph, arms crossed, peels himself off the car. “We need to talk, Seb—”

_“Excuse me!”_

Both Sebastian and Joseph turn to see a meaty man, more so in the face, approaching them from the other side of the parking lot.

“Shit, it’s that freelance journalist…” Sebastian mumbles as he tries to feign deafness. Too bad he’s already made brief eye contact.

“Ivan Diaz.” The man introduces once close enough. “Maybe you’ve heard of me?” He hands Joseph his card. “I’m with the Krimson Post—”

“Yeah, we know who you are.”

The card immediately hops hands – though that’s because Sebastian snatches it from Joseph like a bodyguard – and a smile soon breaks out over Ivan’s face, who seems well-trained in his hunting ground and familiar with the looks of aversion.

“Great, then I suppose you won’t mind if I asked you a few questions about the case you’re working on?” Ivan is looking more at Joseph when he clicks the record button on his handheld camera, and Sebastian immediately cuts in yet again, this time with his arm, and tries to ferry his partner to get in the car with a look of _we’ll talk later_ as he hands Joseph the keys. That plan fails miserably, though. Damn Joseph and his stubbornness.

“Get that shit outta my face. And actually, we would.” Sebastian is captured on camera as he steals the keys back from Joseph and opens the passenger door himself, hitting Ivan in the chest. “So fuck off.”

Again, Ivan doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed. “Is it him? The Elk River Killer?”

Sebastian, now on his way around to the driver’s side, stops dead in his tracks in front of the hood, breath hitched and calling card now crunched within a curled fist. “How the hell do you know that?” He turns around passionately. “That wasn’t released to the press—”

Joseph, who still hasn't gotten in the car yet, closes his eyes at Sebastian’s slip-up, a moment caught too late… Well, shit.

“So it’s true, then? Huh, I thought so…” Ivan mutters, quite pleased at Sebastian’s oversight. “Then that would also mean that this case is related to Leslie Withers, the sole survivor of the Elk River killings ten years ago. He’s your son, isn’t he? Yes, I remember. You adopted the albino out of guilt… _The white demon_.” He quotes, what he probably thinks as poetically. “All because you couldn’t save his family—”

If Ivan had been stretching and holding a rubber band against Sebastian’s arm for the last few minutes, his grip just slipped and the band just snapped.

Upper lip now curled, Sebastian throws a hand out. He’s close enough to hook Ivan by the collar of his shirt and slam Ivan’s back against the body of the car. “Wait a sec.” It almost makes sense now. “ _You’re_ the slimy bastard who wrote that article?”

It was a title Sebastian could never forget. It had been written by a man using the pen name _COVERMAN69_ at the time, who leaked word to the press after Leslie’s incident and caused the whole of Krimson Post to camp out outside of Sebastian’s house for a full week. It was like a seven day bloodbath with how every newspaper was competing and trying to get Leslie’s personal statement about what happened, a statement which was still locked away inside the boy today. Even Sebastian doesn’t know the whole story.

“Oh, you read it? I’m flattered—”

“Who the hell preys on a fifteen-year-old’s trauma for a fucking paycheck and lives with himself? Do you even feel a goddamn thing?” Sebastian rams Ivan against the car again as if to prove a point. The calling card is now on the pavement by their feet.

“Seb…” Joseph warns when catching Sebastian’s grip tightening in a choke, elbow digging right up against Ivan’s throat like a knife.

“Pit bull off a leash?” Ivan says with a laugh while giving Joseph a sideways glance, maybe for a little help, but Sebastian pulls back to slam Ivan a third time with trembling knuckles cloth deep in the man’s collar.

“What the fuck is your angle, Ivan?” Sebastian snaps, and Ivan has the gall to smile despite Sebastian’s rising temper.

“Were you aware that at least _half_ of the cases related to the Elk River Killer came back to your little Leslie Withers?”

“What do you mean?” Joseph asks, unable to see Sebastian’s furious eyes flicker his way.

“Trails of bodies would follow him wherever he and his family would go. Tourist hotspots, local attractions… like a plague they would drop like flies. Don’t you find that strange?” Ivan’s voice lowers to almost a whisper in Sebastian’s face, like it’s a stratagem meant to provoke him. “Do you have anything you wish to add, Detective Castellanos?”

Ivan lifts his camera higher on cue for another angle of Sebastian’s expression, and Sebastian can practically hear the tape turning away inside the deck like a contracting noose.

“You want a comment?” Sebastian asks after a few seconds of hard staring. “Fine. Listen closely.”

Twisting to the side, Sebastian roughly throws Ivan off balance and to the ground in one swift motion. The journalist lands with a loud ‘oof’ against the cement, and the plastic shell of the camera recorder shatters next to him on contact, into a hundred pieces. Joseph stands still through it all, too smart to interfere, and while Ivan grovels on the bolster Sebastian snatches up the crumpled card earlier forgotten by their feet and waves it long enough for Ivan to glimpse.

“If I see you anywhere near my son… I’ll fucking kill you.” Sebastian threatens before he flicks the calling card down onto Ivan’s body like he would a used cigarette and finally gets in the car. “Put _that_ in your next article.”

**Author's Note:**

> Stealth that kudos button like it's the enemy! ‾͟͟͞(((ꎤ ✧曲✧)̂—̳͟͞͞o=͟͟͞͞ HYAAAAHHHH!!!!


End file.
